


Confictura

by daylighthour



Category: Gladiator (2000)
Genre: Ancient Rome, F/M, Gen, Implied Incest, Paranoia, Roman Empire, power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-09 13:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11669943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylighthour/pseuds/daylighthour
Summary: Lucius awakes from nightmares and seeks his mother, only to find out that the reality he lives in is far more sinister than anything he could dream. Missing/added scenes from the movie universe.





	1. Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully I've done the characters and movie themes justice. And so I am told by Google, the title comes from the Latin for fantasies. Or lies...

Lucius awoke with a start. For a moment he was wildly disoriented, drowning in his sea of sweat-soaked bed sheets, but then slowly, like a wave of nausea passing, the reality of his bedroom came back to him. He could not remember why he had jerked awake so harshly; all he could feel presently was fear gnawing a hole in his stomach. The walls and the shadows of his shelves and toys seemed suddenly menacing and sinister. He wanted his mother.

The last time he had had a nightmare, a couple months ago, his mother had told him gently that he was getting too old to steal into her bedroom at night. Lucius hoped she would make an exception in this case. He slipped out of his bed, his nightclothes clinging to his skin, and set off down the hall in the direction of his mother’s room. 

The corridors always scared Lucius at night. The torches burned low in their holders, throwing wide shadows across the floor, and the guards stood like statues with their faces half-concealed by the darkness. Lucius kept his gaze downward and walked at a brisk pace.

When he arrived at his mother’s room, the door was closed, and so Lucius made a fist to knock on it. 

“Mother?” 

The guard caught Lucius’ wrist before the boy could knock. “You must stay back, Master Lucius,” he said calmly.

“But I want to see my mother!” the little boy cried, Still gripping Lucius’ wrist, the guard dragged him back from the door.

“I am not to allow anyone entrance to the Mistress Lucilla’s chambers,” the guard said in the same detached tone. “May I suggest that you go to bed, Master Lucius. The hour is late.”

How could the guard speak so stiffly, so unaffectedly? He had no knowledge of the cold sweat that beaded upon Lucius’ palms at the thought of returning to his bedroom alone, nor of the dank and troubled air that hung about the boy’s bedsheets. He felt too embarrassed to admit to the guard that he was scared, but it was imperative that he not return to sleep yet. That much he knew, deep in his chest, though he knew not why.

“May I wait here for her?” Lucius asked innocently. The guard huffed.

"If that is what you wish.”

Lucius slid down against the wall and curled himself into a tight ball on the floor, resting his chin upon his knees. It was so unlike his mother to seal off herself to him, especially in the night when she knew her son needed her most. His sight blurred at the edges and before he knew it, a few splotches of wetness had appeared on the cloth of his nightgown. Hurriedly, he wiped his eyes, not wanting the guard to think him weak or girlish. No, Lucius would wait calmly for his mother’s door to open, and he wouldn’t sleep until morning if that’s how long he had to wait.

Suddenly, there was an almighty thud from within his mother’s room, and ground beneath Lucius shook as though something very heavy had fallen over. His mother screamed, and immediately another voice countered hers. Deep with anger. His uncle’s voice.

“Mother?” Lucius cried, scampering to his feet. The guard shook his head.

“Keep back,” he said simply, as if hadn’t heard the screams at all.

Lucius shivered. He couldn’t make out their words, but his mother and his uncle sparred back and forth, their voices sharp against each other like the crash of sword against sword in the arena. But with each returned volley his mother’s voice faded away, and yet Commodus’ voice retained its fever pitch. He was the gladiator in the arena, poised with his sword over his opponent’s crushed body, ready to give the final blow. Lucius could hardly draw in a breath.

Heave, hurried footsteps crescendoed, nearer and nearer to the door. At last his mother flung open the door, and Lucius flew to his feet.

“Mother!”

“Lucius!” She made no move toward her son.

Commodus had followed Lucilla through the door, hand outstretched beside her shoulder as if to grab her. He looked to his nephew and dropped his arm, his face red with a rage Lucius had never seen before.

“What is he doing here?” Commodus demanded. “Outside his chambers. Why is he here?”

“Commodus--”

Lucius cut his own mother off, feeling it is his fault that his uncle is so angry and thus he should be the one to offer explanation. “I had nightmares, Uncle.” Once he spoke, his voice was frail and pitiful, any courage he had built up had rushed out with his breath.

Commodus pulled a face, a smug and mocking frown that made Lucius’ eyes prick hot with tears. “He has nightmares, what shall we do?.” Then in an instant, as though a rope had been cut, all false concern snapped to anger once more, and he turned to Lucilla. “This boy… your boy, your sniveling boy, you think he has the make of an emperor?”

“Brother, please,” Lucilla pleaded, tears shimmering like jewels upon her cheeks. “Go to sleep, it’s been days since you’ve rested.”

Commodus sighed, the white hot fervor draining from his muscles as he slumped into Lucilla’s arms. She supported him almost grudgingly, afraid of his getting too close. Lucius’ heart hammered in his ears, and he wondered whether anyone could hear it.

"Stay with me,” his uncle whispered, voice so quiet Lucius had to put all his concentration into listening. Commodus leaned heavily against his sister, his breaths more audible than his words. 

Lucilla peeled her brother from her. “My son needs me now, Commodus.”

"Go to him, then,” he said, and it wasn’t so much permission as a dare. Lucilla accepted it, going to her son and pressing his crying face against her stomach. Commodus looked on with narrowed eyes, something like jealousy burning within them.

“Take him to his room.” He raised his voice, and though it was loud, it was not full of the anger it had been before. “Treasure your time together.” Lucius relaxed into his mother’s embrace, but for some reason she pulled him tighter than she ever had before.


	2. Dawn

Commodus stood at the terrace, looking out upon his city as the first vestiges of daylight gleamed purple-red in the east. Lucius gasped inadvertently, stuffing his fist in his mouth too late to muffle it. He knew he shouldn't have snuck out of his bedroom again, shouldn't be watching Commodus in a private moment, but his feet filled with sand and he couldn't move. His uncle whirled around so sharply the folds of his cloak snapped against themselves, like a flag caught in a winter’s wind.

An apology was on the tip of Lucius’ tongue, but it withered dry. His uncle watched him with dark, tired eyes rimmed red as though he’d been crying. Lucius felt his knees shaking. If his mother’s resolve wavered at Commodus’ hands, there was no way Lucius could survive. A leaf fluttered into one of the torches on the wall and burned with a sizzle. Would his uncle hurt him?

“Lucius,” his uncle said finally, positioning himself so that he leaned upon the balcony’s edge. “I thought I was alone.”

“I’ll go back to my bedchambers, Uncle,” Lucius said, nearly tripping on his own heels as he backed away.

His uncle’s voice was soft as linen, the way it always had been until the previous night. The voice Lucius knew. “You can’t sleep?”

Lucius shook his head meekly.

Commodus nodded and invited his nephew closer with a wave of his hand. “Then let us be awake together.”

Lucius was surprised at this and approached his uncle cautiously, ekking out onto the terrace step by shuffling step, for fear his uncle might change his mind. The thud he had heard the night before echoed through Lucius’ memory, bouncing in his ears the same way it had reverberating off the palace walls. There was nothing heavy near his uncle now; even the torches were a few paces away.

Lucius was within an arm's length of Commodus now, then closer, and still nothing. Lucius let out some of the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

“What is it that scares you most?” Commodus asked, a slight eagerness to the words. “What makes it so you can’t sleep?”

The question took Lucius aback for a moment, and he searched his mind for an answer. He had never wondered precisely what it was that scared him because there had never been a precise thing, only a dreadful pit in his stomach and the thought that if he didn’t have his mother’s comfort something bad would happen. 

“Is it the darkness?” Commodus suggested, biting the corner of his lip as though about to witness a spectacle. 

Lucius didn’t like the way his uncle looked at him, hungrily, as the boy had seen an alley cat salivate after a mouse. The whispered thought came in Lucius’ head that perhaps the fear had something to do with Commodus himself, but Lucius knew enough not to voice this. Instead, he agreed with his uncle, because the darkness made everything more menacing, even his wooden toy legionnaire on the table beside his bed. 

Commodus laid his hand on Lucius’ shoulder, and the touch was light. “That is what I fear, too, Lucius.” He turned his head toward the Colosseum, tinted red in dawn’s early glow. 

“But Uncle,” Lucius spoke slowly, reverently, as though his next words might awaken some ancient secret, “men like you aren’t scared of anything. You’re an Emperor.”

A slow, sad-eyed smile unfolded across Commodus’ face. He guided his nephew’s face so the boy looked at the poplar trees in the courtyard. “Look in that tree. Do you see the bird perched there?”

Lucius wondered what this had to do with his previous statement, but he nodded anyhow. “Yes, Uncle.”

Commodus exhaled, gazing with a rueful longing at the bird, who was preening herself in the tree branches. “You’ll see when you get older, Lucius, that our so-called wise men are always debating what it is that sets us apart from creatures like that bird there. What we humans have that animals don’t.”

“We have buildings and houses.”

“But doesn’t that bird over there also have a nest? No, it’s something not so simple. Some will say it’s because we can love, others that we can create such beauty in art. But I say it’s something different, my dear Lucius.”

“What is it?”

“That we can anticipate. That we fear. A bird flies----” Commodus broke of suddenly to fetch a rock from a potted plant at the wall. He took Lucius’ hand and pressed the stone to the boy’s palm. “Throw it, nephew.”

Lucius’ mouth dropped open. “At her?”

His uncle nodded wordlessly, a look of restrained enjoyment on his face. Lucius did as he was told, hurling the rock at the bird as hard as he could. It missed, hitting the tree trunk instead, but it was enough to frighten the bird into taking off. 

“See that momentary disturbance? That is all. She’ll go right back to flying, without memory of that rock in her stupid bird brain, and without fear that it will happen again. She doesn’t worry that I could kill her. She simply is.” 

Commodus went on. “But if you threw a rock at me, I would remember it. I would fear you. I remember everyone who has thrown rocks at me, Lucius. Every single one of them. And I fear them. But with that fear comes preparation. That's the thing, nephew, fear makes you more apt to defend yourself. Can you blame me for wanting to do that?”

“No, Uncle.”

“That is what sets us apart from the birds. Their defense is impulsive. They take flight. We, on the other hand, can plan our defenses, Lucius. And sometimes we must.”

Commodus was nearly panting now, clutching the railing with white-knuckled hands and surveying his city with fever bright eyes. Lucius got the impression somehow that he wasn't his uncle’s only audience for this speech, that there was someone else Commodus hoped would overhear. Lucius shivered; perhaps the ghost of the listener was among them, weaving through the early morning smoke of long-burning torches. 

After a few long and silent minutes, Commodus settled his breath, and his features relaxed. He extended a hand to his nephew, peeling himself reluctantly from the Roman panorama. “Come to my study. I'll read you to sleep. A boy your age needs his rest.”

Lucius didn't want to go, but his uncle was leading him there anyway. He tugged at Commodus’ wrist. “I want to see Mother.”

Commodus pulled Lucius closer with a jerking motion. “Nonsense,” he growled. “Don't wake her.”

In the library, Commodus pulled the draperies shut and took a purple embossed storybook from the shelf. The Iliad. He and Lucius sat down together on the divan. “Where did we leave off, nephew?”

Lucius didn't answer, and Commodus flipped to a page toward the middle and began to read, Lucius fighting the fatigue that crept up his muscles like black poison. But his uncle’s voice was soft again, and soon Lucius’ head had dropped to his shoulder, and then his eyes drooped shut as well.

Commodus stopped reading when his nephew’s breaths took on the deep and regular rhythm of sleep. Soft footsteps and the wispy rustle of fabric drew nearer to the library door. The Praetorian guard had neither such a gentle step nor gentle clothes. 

“Come, sister,” Commodus beckoned in a loud whisper. Lucilla tiptoed round the door, advancing slowly into the room as though dragged by chains.

Commodus’ lips fell into a tight smile. “Look how he loves me, how he trusts me.” He gestured to his nephew, now resting his whole body upon the emperor’s shoulder. “Why can you not do the same?”


End file.
